


Love at First Sight (A series of silly little stories of people falling in love slowly)

by FalseProphet (Batmanthegroomer)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, so much fluff look out, suggestions of sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:52:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batmanthegroomer/pseuds/FalseProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small stories about people realizing they are in love, even if it's not in so many words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dangerous (Dorian/Cole)

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and such will be edited as I write more entries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight violence  
> Combat  
> Death  
> Blood

Suddenly he was down; air knocked from his lungs; sense knocked from his mind; staff knocked from his hands. He was prone and he knew it but his body would not respond. He'd never seen it coming, the blow to the back of the head was quick, powerful and he'd had no warning. Dorian's world pulsed in time with his heart, beating fast as the only part of him that truly seemed to understand what was at risk.

Dorian screams at himself to roll over, to put up some kind of a fight. His mind is stuck in a loop of questions, no matter that he's in the middle of a battlefield. Who struck him?! How had they gotten so close?! He imagines pushing himself up, rolling to his back, but all he can manage is to wiggle his fingers. He's been sapped, stunned. He's in trouble.

He hears a dagger cut through the air and he braces for pain, for death, squeezing his eyes closed. Death doesn't come. His eyes open to a thud next to him. He turns his head quickly and startles to find himself face-to-face with the enemy's cold, dead eyes. He quickly takes the moment to push himself up, rolling onto his side. Another man falls in front of him, eyes wide and locked forever in shock.

As the body crumples Dorian is given a glimpse of his savior--Cole. The blond is not so much looking at Dorian as through him. Twin daggers covered in blood. His lips are set in a thin line, eyes glazed, body poised and coiled to strike. There is a splatter of blood on his face, just above his lip, and bright red against his pale skin. Dorian is still dumbfounded as another soldier approaches, sword raised and intent on Cole.

The rogue bends, spins daggers in his hands and shoves them backwards. Dorian's eyes widen as the daggers meet flesh, drive through thin armor and skewer the approaching enemy. Blood seeps through as Cole steps forward and frees his weapons, flinging blood into the air like pollen. The man falls.

Dorian blinks up at Cole as the blonde finally seems to 'see' the mage.

"Are you all right?" His voice is calm, concerned, totally removed from the slaughter. 

Dorian can only nod. He pictures Cole giggling, seated on the table in the tavern while Varric tells another story. Innocent and shy and eager to help...

/Dangerous/. 

Dorian swallows hard.


	2. Morning Rituals (Dorian/Cole)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nudity  
> Suggestions of past sexual encounters

There is a shuffling next to him, but Cole chooses to ignore it. Sleeping does not come easy--it is scary and he does not like his 'dreams--but waking always seems harder than sleeping. He does not want to leave the warmth he finds himself surrounded with. He does not want to open his eyes. He does not yet wish to face anything but the comfort and smell of the man next to him. 

Cole feels a brush of lips against his forehead, well under the expanse of Tevinter blankets, and then the touch is gone. He hesitates, eyes fluttering, before opening them. Dorian is gone; shuffling about at the other end of the bed. Cole can feel his steady weight, hear drowsy thoughts like a mantra outlining what is to come. He does not want to leave the warmth, but he wants to see.

Cautiously fingers creep out and grip the blankets, pulling them down just enough to permit blue eyes a gap. He is awarded with a dark tan back, bare and tight as Dorian stretches arms over his head. Cole watches muscles move, sparse scars bunching and catching the skin in puckers as arms come down to cup the back of Dorian's head. The mage stands and Cole's eyes crinkle as he grins at the bare view.

A white cloth is soon pulled over Dorian's waist, tucked into itself to remain in place. Cole's eyes watch lazy movements. His mind wanders to meet thoughts escaping like words mumbled to no one in particular. Dorian approaches the wall-mounted mirror and leans forward.

Thick, dark hair is wild. It leans too far to one side, exposes fuzz around Dorian's ear. It perches too high over his brow, like a flame. Moustache is unruly above his lip like a smear of soot. Patch of hair at his chin nearly unmentionable in it's resolve to disobey. Cole disagrees but Dorian's thoughts are dark and resolute.

Dorian pulls long, strong fingers through his hair and Cole's body keens as it remembers the sensation. It's a caring but determined guiding touch, putting things in places where they should be with confidence. The swipe of a thumb over hair at his chin like a gentle pull, a curious tug like a question asked to all but answered different like the print of a finger. Both hands move up to coddle and twist and urge a moustache into it's place. Both hands moving in tandem until they reveal a slightly open-mouthed smile, a slight sigh of contentment and a lift of eyebrows because 'Ahh, yes, /there/ it is.' Cole feels suddenly warm.

"You know," Dorian sighs, turning away from the mirror. He can barely see Cole from beneath Imperium colors. "I /detest/ when you watch me like this."

"I like your moustache fluffy."

"You've seen too much. I have to kill you."

Cole answered with a soft giggle into his pillow.


	3. Kittens (Ketojan/Anders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kittens  
> Talk of suicide  
> Attempted suicide

Anders' eyes narrowed slowly as he took in the sight before him. It was a soft expression, warring with the exhaustion lining his face. He was still not used to sharing his back room. Times like this he wanted nothing more than the freedom to simply collapse into bed; not worry about small talk... but if he could return each night to /this sight/, perhaps he would reconsider a solitary lifestyle.

The large Qunari was seated on the floor. It looked to be a position he had slipped into after many moments of awkward crouching. He seemed out of place on the floor in such a way, like freshly fallen rocks on dust covered ruins. In front of him, tiny paws patting against the floor, were three kittens. The same three kittens Anders had been trying to track down for days. A dark spot of spilled milk indicated Ketojan had knelt to hold the bowl to permit the tiny creatures to drink.

The apostate could recall the Qunari bathed in flame, willing to sacrifice himself for the Qun. He could recall the lack of fight when forced to continue living in the back of the clinic. He could recall disgust, fear and confusion about freedom for mages... /all/ mages. Now there appeared to be a sort of calm, a sort of contentment even in such strange circumstances. Perhaps for the moment, Ketojan was happy wrapped up in the present.

Large, strong fingers made for spellcasting curled around soft tails, parted through silky fur. Ketojan claimed his hands were good for nothing but destruction. He was a creature of fault, a creature of threat. He would give in to temptation if not for the watch of his betters. He would bare himself for any demon who dared look at him. Weak-willed and unworthy. Anders was watching that unravel before him. He was watching calm hands as they gently touched and explored. He was watching a great deal of care exerted into giving pleasure to another living being without thought. 

Ketojan could crush one of the kittens with barely a thought, and yet he did not. Anders knew he would not; perhaps Ketojan would now see.

Anders would make him see. Kittens would help, or at the very least... they couldn't hurt.


	4. Mending (Ketojan/Anders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief talk of blood  
> Talk of fairly severe injury to a child
> 
> Quick interruption to say that Ketojan is completely ignorant to Justice's presence. He has no idea.

Ketojan had learned not to pry when he heard commotion in the front of the clinic. He had learned--for the most part--to ignore angry voices and loud noises. Anders had always claimed he would 'call for Ketojan if he needed him'. Ketojan did not know what this call would sound like, but he was assured he'd know it when he heard it. He wondered if it would sound strange in Anders' mouth like other words did. He wondered if it would stick in his throat like 'Templar' or if it would curl his lips down like 'justice'. 

But this commotion is strange. It catches Ketojan's attention and he cannot shake it. Someone is crying, sobbing, begging for help and all the Qunari can hear from Anders is a soft breath--words too small to be heard from the back of the clinic. Against better judgement, Ketojan peers out into the clinic proper from the dark back room. He is trusted to be free about the clinic but is also warned heavily against being seen too frequently. He keeps himself mostly hidden and lets his eyes walk forward for him.

There is a woman pleading with Anders, clutching the front of his robes and wilting to her knees. Anders seems eager to be free of her, but not annoyed, distracted. His eyes are downcast and wide, resting on the bloodied child laid out on a cot before him. Anders grabs the woman's wrists and carefully frees her before moving to his work. 

Ketojan's eyes narrow in on pale hands as they work. They are stiff at first, testing cold waters, joints scared to apply too much pressure to a barrier of air. Soft blue light glows from cupped palms, reaching out more confidently than mortal fingers. Ketojan feels a tremor up his spine as the light splashes itself against the mangled chest. He cannot shake the feeling of ill from such a tainted touch under the skin...

And then Anders begins to work. Fingers pluck at the air, sewing invisible thread or playing a timeless string instrument. Tender caresses to the air with the pad of a thumb like softly whispered re-assurances. The woman continues to sob, now on her knees, hands clasped in prayer as Anders' hands move further apart. They come back together hard, slow as if through great struggle, pulling together two halves of a heavy, broken thing.

Anders' lips part. Ketojan watches the mage sigh and life seems to fill the boy once more, stolen from the apostate with pale hands. Anders stumbles backwards, lips pursed now as nostrils flare to breathe. There is sweat upon his brow, tightness in his body like the stress of battle has settled upon him. The woman continues to sob, a different cadence--the boy breathes instead of bleeds. He will live.

Ketojan feels a strange tightening in his stomach, in his chest, in his soul. Mending magic like fighting against unseen foes. Healing like breathing life from oneself into another. Powerful, frightening... worthy.


	5. Disobedience (Ashaad/Seamus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General musing  
> Qun loyalty tested

There were things the Qun was and there were things the Qun was not. That knowledge was universal among his people. However the one thing the Qun was always and without question... certain. The Qun was sure and confidence and steadfast. It was not unusual for young Qunari to wrestle with this; that was part of the necessity of re-education. Young Qunari often warred with the idea, children were often eager to disobey. But did they not learn? By the time children left their tamassarins, were they not sure footed in the path of the Qun? 

They... should be. Ashaad found, perhaps, he was not. Or, at the very least he was not as sure as he had once been. At his age, assigned to his duty, trusted as he was, he should have been unwavering. He had thought he was. He had thought he was many things that now he questioned, such, he imagined, was why the Qun was absolute. Questioning was bad, it was confusing and distracting.

So he believed all forms of disobedience to be--but he was wrong. Seamus was disobedience personified. He was the son of the viscount, clearly meant to rule in his father's passing, and yet the boy did everything in his power to prevent this. He was well suited for such a job, or he could be if he simply accepted his role. He would be a good viscount, Ashaad mused, if he would give in to his destiny.

But he would not. In clear display of what the Qun prevented, Seamus was chaos. His disagreement with his pre-determined path caused turmoil. It angered and pained his father. It spread stress into the inner workings of the viscount's office. It put unneeded stress upon guards. It carried that stress to the city and each and every citizen within. One simple act; one simple 'no' and it had cascaded into a city wide problem. One small piece out of place and everything threatened to fall.

Thus, Ashaad's faith in the Qun should have been redoubled, renewed and made ever stronger. It was not. It was tested. He found the strings pulled to their breaking point and he could find no comfort in setting his weight against them. He felt, deep in his sleep when his thoughts were not his own, he felt them weaken. He was poised to fall.

Seamus was happy. He was free. He was things Ashaad had no words for in any language. He should have repented. He should have been tempered by the guilt of his avalanche. He was not. He was intoxicating. He was curious. He was smarter than any human Ashaad had ever known. It was not that he did not understand the pain and discord he caused, but that he could live with this knowing it was...

"Just."

"What?" Seamus turned to glance at his quiet companion. 

"It is... a strange word to apply to any concept outside the Qun."

"There /is/ justice outside the Qun, Ashaad."

"And... disobedience."

Seamus did not quite know what to make of the expression on Ashaad's face. It was almost a smile.


	6. Dating (Dorian/Cole)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approved for general audiences
> 
> From a prompt meme on Tumblr:  
> http://falseprophet.tumblr.com/post/111590244333/dragon-age-prompts

Dorian hadn’t ever considered dating, formal dating, like courting. He hadn’t the time or luxury for such things in Tevinter and he’d never entertained finding time for them now that the sky had split open and the world was ending. But… here he was.

Honeyed eyes stared curiously at the wine bottle on the small table, just room enough for two plates and two goblets. He’d managed to move things around in his small nook of the library and fit in the little thing. It was too short for chairs, but that was what fancy pillows were for.

The mage stepped back and eyed his handiwork with criticism, hands firmly on his hips as he tilted his head from one side to the other. He knew he didn’t have to adhere to any norms or standards—not here, especially not with /him/—but part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to be able to stare his father in the eye some day and fully describe how Tevinter ‘perfect’ his first… date had been.

He’d paid a delicate little maid from the tavern in advance to prepare a meal to his exact specifications. He’d stopped in to check more than once and had assured himself that everything would be fine. He couldn’t help his nerves. Even knowing that his date for the evening would have no idea about how important it was that the plates were turned just slightly, about how there was no mistake in the colors chosen for the pillows, it still made Dorian tense and unsure.

Part of him was scared beyond belief. Part of him had settled a deal with the Maker that if everything was perfect beyond a shadow of a doubt that this relationship would hold… that this time… Ahh, but that was foolish.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder as he heard soft footsteps on the stairs. They were not the soft shoes of the maid, though they were timid.

"Dorian?" Came the soft voice, curious, almost as nervous as the mage pretended not to be.

"About time." Dorian huffed, moving to lean against a bookshelf, turning to face the man on the stairs. "I was starting to think you’d reconsidered my offer."

"No. I was talking with Varric. I have never been on a … date before. I thought it was something you ate."

Dorian smiled softly and felt every muscle in his body relax. Who cared if his measurements were off or if the fowl was cooked improperly? It would be just as thrilling to tell his father he had forgone all Tevinter regulations as it would be to say he’d adhered to them.

He held out his hand and smirked.

"Well, then you are certainly in for a treat, Cole."


End file.
